The Ranger
by Ms. Authoress
Summary: For years she had been running from who she truly was, refusing what belonged to her. She remained in the shadows but never forgot her promise. The peril of the world speaks loudly to her, and now the time has come. The blade that was once broken shall be remade, and she would step forth and claim what was hers. ElladanxOC/AragornxArwen/ElrohirxOC
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

**Hello all! I am back with a complete revision of The Ranger! Bigger and better, and containing a bit more romance than it did when I was first posted with nearly twenty chapters. My writing has greatly improved since then and I am very eager to show it to you wonderful people on FanFiction! I would like to clarify, however and to be absolutely fair, that this _is_ a female Aragorn version story but Aragorn himself is not completely written out. In fact, he has a big part in this story but I cannot say when or how he will appear! That is for me to surprise you. ;) I ask that you give the story a try, because there is a lot to come with these chapters and you will not be left disappointed, I promise you, I have made that a sworn duty!**

**I would like to thank the lovely _Winged-Violoncelle_ for making this chapter possible. Dear, this chapter would be nothing without your awesome betaing! She has her own _Lord of the Rings_ story herself, currently in the progress of revision itself, and I highly recommend it if you want a good read that will leave you wondering what happening next and grinning like an idiot. She is a wonderful writer.**

**Alright - enough with my blabbing! Without further ado, I give to thee the chapter! Reviews are loved and highly welcomed, constructive criticism more so!**

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_With every tale there is a beginning, and with every beginning there is also an ending. The ending of a tale is not always happy, but is filld with death and despair and woe. But you already know this, my dear child, for you have lived among the Elves, and not oft are there stories with much joy or an ending with happiness and everlasting peace. I will tell it to you again, my sweet child, for you desire to hear it once more from me, and before the next fall shall take me like a whisper of the wind, you will only have my tales to remember me by._

_There was little hope in the earlier years of the Third Age. What hope there was hanged daintily in the heart and never lingered. The light of hope was very dim, like a fading star in the endless black night, to be long forgotten upon its departure from the world. That was the light of hope then, a fading light that only faded more and more as the days passed on. But that soon changed, you see, for something was born years in the passing and would be the renewal of the light that had long gone into darkness._

_This was a child, a daughter of past kings with a bearing of a gift to her name, borne through the blood of the Dunedain. She was named Araraniel, for it meant gentleness, and ever so gentle would her heart be in her older years. It was in her that the hope was lit again once more, the hope for Men, and with her birth she bore a title. The heir of Isildur, she would therefore be known as, but also she would forever be hunted by many enemies, and her enemies wanting to bring her head to the Dark Lord. For she was Isildur's heir and Sauron held much hatred against the race of Men, wishing nothing more than to destroy them._

_She was the daughter of Arathorn, a man of the Dúnedain and a Ranger of the North, and later the Chieftain of the Dunedain upon his father's death nearly two years before her birth. In the midst of autumn, Arathorn had met and fallen in love with Gilraen, daughter of Dírhael and Ivorwen of the Arnorian. The air was arid oddly that day, and the clouds were shadowing. The burning memory of the attack of the foul creatures slaughtering their home would not be soon gone, but never would Dírhael and Ivorwen be rid of the slaughter of their own son, Gilraen's brother, who had fought with bravery but was cut down by the Orcs not long after the attack. And so Dírhael gathered his family and what provisions they could bring, and carried his son on a dray of soft bedding with what comfort could be offered to him even in death, Dírhael guided his family away from danger, slipping away into the night with stealth and caution._

_They traveled light and in silence. What words could offer was barren, despite the tenderness of the tongue. It could not put an ease to the heart of Dírhael, for he had seen too much than he wished to ever see. He was much watchful, wary of every sound that reached his ears. Though fortunate they had been to have made their precarious escape, their weal grew thin from them. It was not long after their escape did Dírhael feel more unease, as if he could feel his heart becoming shadowed. Whether it was his heart biding him warn or the gloom of the world that had finally beset upon him, Dírhael took it as a warning. They were being pursued by Orcs who had picked up their trail within the forest, and, remaining hidden under the shadows of the tall trees, they pursued the flesh with much eagerness to taste blood of the suffering._

_Little hope there was for Dírhael and his wife and daughter who stood faithfully with him, but hope was not all lost. Dírhael had forgotten those who still ventured within the forests serving and bearing an oath to protect the Free People, and the servants of the Dark Lord had also forgotten it too…_

_Rangers they were, leaping forth from the shadows of the forest and striking their foes hard, swift yet quiet on their feet. Arrows whipped through the air like sharp knives. They were the Rangers of the North, one of the Dunedain; descended from the Númenóreans and blessed with long life. It was to the Rangers of the North that Dírhael owed them his gratitude, and grateful he was for his family's safety by the doing of the Ranger's timing. This was when Arathorn, son of Arador met Gilraen, daughter of Dírhael and Ivorwen, and took delight upon her, for she was fair and kind-hearted. Arathorn took pity unto the family and took them to his father, Lord Arador, and they were much welcomed there with the hospitality of Arador._

_In less than a year Arathorn and Gilraen were married, and much joy spread. The joy and peace that had been felt, however, soon came to an end. By the next year Arador fell to the hand of a troll just along the borders of the Trollshaws, and Arathorn was appointed Chieftain of the Dunedain, of which Arathorn bore the title with honor and took it as his duty to ensure not only the safety of his people, but the waylay of the servants of the Dark Lord. He proved himself of much worth as a Chieftain, yet his heart was still burdened by the death of his father and little hope kindled in his heart after a time, but it was rekindled. For after another year, Gilraen bore him a child. This child was no male heir, but a female, a little girl graceful as a queen, and Arathorn wept with joy._

_But all that is good does not remain and all that is loved does not forever keep. Araraniel was only two years of age when Arathorn was slain by Orcs. Within the forests of Taurdan, Arathorn rallied his allies to him and waylaid a party of Orcs deep in the forest. Tall and unhindered, he led his men into battle, for so much death had been done that day unto Taurdan and their men. Among that followed Arathorn were the sons of Lord Elrond Halfelven who had come to Taurdan to forewarn Arathorn of the concern which their father had for the young child Araraniel, for Sauron ever so hated the race of Men and his focus was intent finding the heir of Isildur._

_Arathorn's promise to return was bittersweet. But his return was bitter. Arathorn, son of Arador and Chieftain of the Dunedain was slain. And so, with a heavy heart and sorrow, Gilraen the Fair set forth from Taurdan and came to Imladris with the sons of Elrond under their guidance._

_Lord Elrond Halfelven took Araraniel as his very own. It was feared that her own name was a danger to herself. Araraniel she was no longer named, and instead she was Glessil, for it meant joy, and she brought great joy to Gilraen. She would not be told of her true identity, not for a long while yet; and during that time she was cared for by Lord Elrond and was held under his wing and educated. It was not until she was twenty years of age when she was told of her of her heritage, and bid her forewarn, for there were still many who would be glad to bring her head to the Dark Lord. Still so young, Araraniel was proud of the title which she bore, but that pride soon faded into the wind when she looked upon the world and saw what the world had endured and continued to endure. Isildur's failure, she called it; and since then she rid herself of the entitlement._

_And so it came that Araraniel, daughter of Arathorn and heir of Isildur, no longer desired the offers of her heritage, and in the forests she dwelt._

_No, my child; there is light, but it has long been veiled by the shadow._

_And thus I take my leave of this world soon, but I do not grieve and I bid for none given to me, for I am happy. Death comes to claim all race of Men, when their time has come, and your time will come as well. But not yet. You will live on and you will be a shining star to the world, though you will be veiled. My child, do not whither where you tread. My child, my darling Araraniel, remember my words that I say to you: you will walk alone in this world as Araraniel, daughter of Arathorn and heir of Isildur, until too your time has come._

_"Ónen i-Estel Edain, ú-chebin estel anim."_

When Araraniel awoke, she was met with the still darkness of the night, the grey clouds skittering over the skies above her only bringing a sense of gloom to the late hours. Her eyes fluttered open, and, without her knowledge, a soft sigh escaped from her lips into the chilled air. Now that she had been awakened, she knew she would not be able to fall back into slumber for a bit, if at all. It was cold and the air felt close, and her hands were numb from the coldness of the air even through her leather gloves. Though worn they were, they still provided excellent use for her, but tonight there was nothing preventing the cold. Araraniel stood from her bedroll and turned to the dim fire that crackled softly, which had very little life in it now that hours had passed since it was first lit. It gave little light to her but enough warmth, and for that she was thankful as she plopped herself down on the ground in front of the fire.

_"Ónen i-Estel Edain, ú-chebin estel anim"_

The words echoed in her head. She didn't dare tell herself it was only a dream, for it was not. It was a memory, a haunting memory. She did not think it would ever leave her. Her eyes clouded at the mere thought of it which often plagued her mind. It was one of the reasons that sleep came so little to her. Far and long she had wandered beyond safety without it, and when little sleep came to her, troubling thoughts and memories also followed.

Her eyes shifted to her surroundings. The air was cold and felt thick as she sat among the closed trees around her, and even as she stood and walked around she still could feel the dreadful stillness of the night. There was something here that was discomforting to her, perhaps it was the weather, or simply the fact she had to stop and rest. She did not know, and doubted she would be able to fall back to sleep. She did not want to. The presence of the forest was not all comforting to her like it often was.

Araraniel looked at the shadowed passage that laid out before her, darkened with tall trees that hovered over the ground with its large barks and outstretched branches, as if the trees themselves were filled with anger. The night only gave it a more direful appearance. Araraniel fought with herself for a long while, debating whether to gallop and escape the dark clutches of her surroundings, or to stay and try to rest. Neither idea was appealing or comforting to her.

But one look at her mare and the decision was made. Dearest Avalon! There could be no other steed to compare, but that was a biased claim from Araraniel. Though even so undoubtedly bias, her steed had carried her far across many leagues, and long into the days did the mare bear his mistress with such strength and determination that left even Araraniel stunned. Old age did not hinder him the slightest. His will was greater than Araraniel's, and Araraniel would have no greater steed to bear her through her journey. Alas, after so long with very little rest and to drink, Avalon was finally worn, and she would not send her horse into exhaustion. So it was decided she would stay.

Araraniel plopped back onto the ground and leaned her head back against the log with a sigh, propping her arms behind her head. It would be such a fruitless attempt to sleep. It would do no good. She was certain she would not sleep tonight, and as a chilling gust of air swept over her harshly, Araraniel was then certain of it. She looked up at the sky, but could not past the grim tall trees above her which took away any comfort there was.

The night would not leave her quickly.

Some hours later the sun rose, and at the slightest hint of light Araraniel hurriedly began her preparations to leave. It was peculiar for Araraniel to be in such a hurry to leave the presence of the forest, but the darkening feeling from the night afore had deepened, and her heart was clouded with warning and a sense of discomfort. So Araraniel mounted onto her saddle, and just as quickly as she mounted she was galloping away, disappearing into the dim darkness within the trees.

She was out of the forest by the time the sun was risen in the sky, the early hours of the day gone. It was near midday now, and Araraniel had never felt more relieved to be under the sunlight and away from the shadows of the forest and the trees looming over her frame. The feeling that had settled into her heart last night did not fade, though; it ever so remained, and it bothered her. "_Hortho,_" she spoke to her horse in the Elven tongue, and he heeded.

Araraniel's stomach made her stop. Her mind told her to keep going but her stomach disagreed. Unable to ignore the persistent grumbles, she stopped, dismounted, and reached for her small pouch tied to her saddle. All she found was dried fruit and stale bread, and she was running low on her water. She would have to make do for now. But something caught Araraniel's eyes that distracted her from her "meal". Food was forgotten and she knelt to the ground, running her hand over the crushed grass and feeling the dirt.

The ground had been disturbed, trampled by footprints. Familiar footprints. Familar, unwanted footprints.

"Orcs," Araraniel murmured dryly. She now knew why her mind had been clouded. The foul creatures had been wandering about. Quickly she stood, stuffing her pouch away and grabbing the reigns. "_Tolo_," Ararainiel said to Avalon as she mounted. Avalon knew the tone well, and the moment she sat on the saddle, he sprinted off into a gallop and bore his mistress away, and her search began. If there were Orcs wandering about then Araraniel would find them and slaughter them before they could put down a life of innocence. Her search carried on throughout the day and well into the late afternoon. Her luck remained ill, but she knew the ground better than any other Ranger, and she knew where the Orc-trail had been going. But she could not continue her search without refilling her water or without giving Avalon some respite and quench his thirst.

Araraniel swiftly dismounted and, grabbing the reigns, she brought Avalon to the flowing riverbank. As he drank eagerly, Araraniel too quenched her thirst and re-filled her flask. Then Araraniel began to shuffle it away but paused, her eyes again drawn to the ground. It had been trampled with footprints, and feeling the ground with her hands Araraniel made a discovery that only a Ranger would know. "The footprints are fresh," Araraniel murmured, standing, "They must have just passed."

_Woosh!_

An arrow cut through the air like a sharp knife. Araraniel quickly caught it and, without hesitation, she drew her bow and swiftly shot the arrow into the shadows where shrubberies and trees grew. A loud noise came from within, and an Orc stumbled onto the ground, the arrow pierced into his neck. At that very moment more Orcs leaped forth from the shadows and charged, weapons prepared, and their dark language loud in her ears. "_Noro lim, Avalon! Noro lim! Go!_" Araraniel slapped her horse's behind gently, and with a small niegh Avalon galloped away, soon gone from sight. Araraniel withdrew two arrows from her quiver and swiftly shot both one at a time, bringing down two of her foes. Her need for her bow changed as she came to close battle with the Orcs, and quickly her sword was out and blade met with blood.

She whirled her blade and thrusted it into the chest of its first victim, and the moment she pulled it out the Orc was on the ground. "Argh!" came a cry, and Araraniel swiftly ducked and avoided an attack. She sliced her blade across the Orc's back when he was still turned away, harshly kicking him to the ground with her foot. He was not yet dead though, and made a move to retrieve his dagger. But Araraniel's blade was already sunk into his chest before he had a chance to even grab it. Without hesitation, Araraniel quickly withdrew her dagger and threw it behind her without direction. The dagger found a victim, sinking into the small neck of an Orc that was charging for her, and he was then defeated. Araraniel pulled her sword from the body of the dead Orc at her feet and turned, swiftly bringing defeat to her next foe.

The battle was short. At last Araraniel sliced through her last remaining foe, the last remaining foe who hadn't cowardly fled, but the number of the living cowards was not much. It was not a big army and their defenses were weak. And that was good enough for Araraniel, despite that a small number of Orcs had fled; wherever they were headed they would not be strong enough to carry out whatever it was what they intended to do. Araraniel sheathed her sword and strode across the riverbank and began her search for her steed.

She let out a sharp whistle into the brisk air, echoing loudly. Avalon came trotting forth not a moment later, safe and unharmed. Araraniel smiled and came forward, taking grip of the harness. She patted his head, murmuring to her dear friend, "Come. We have a long journey ahead of us."

Araraniel mounted onto her saddle and rode away, not daring to look back at the site which was now the grave of the servants of evil. She had a strong feeling it would not be the last drop of blood she would yet see at the end of her journey, and she did not care to think about it.

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**Author's Note:**

**I hope you enjoyed the read! Was it good? Bad? Please let me know! I crave to know your thoughts and opinions, and suggestions on anything. :)**

**Your Humble Authoress,**

Ms. Authoress


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: First and foremost I would like to thank Elves are awesome and Narsilia Lyanna Elendil for their reviews! Your feedback is highly appreciated and I thank you very much for your reviews.**

**Reviews are incredibly loved and very welcome, constructive criticism even more so!**

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Araraniel abruptly pulled the reigns and came to a cessation. Before her was the Ettenmoors, a mountainous land of unfriendly adversaries. It was no stranger to Araraniel, but not even she had ventured far into there. In the distance, minuscule but effulgent glows of fire fermented, but were barely visible in the wind of snow. Shadowed and dark flecks moved along the escarpment, crag paths. Araraniel squinted, hoping to see through the flurry of snow, only to no avail. She already knew the answer, and did not relish it. "Orcs," Araraniel said dryly. And many of them.

Their numbers have grown.

"And no trolls," Araraniel murmured, her voice rasp from the gelid wind. She had come to scout and scout she did, and found more than she expected.

She would return to Rivendell.

"_Go_, Avalon," Araraniel chirruped to her horse, turning back around, "_Noro_, Avalon!" Avalon heeded and galloped off, riding swiftly. The frore air was vicious against Araraniel's face, hitting her skin like shards of frozen ice. She brought her cloak around her face to protect it from the frosty air, and shielded her eyes with the hood, breathing a sigh as warmth touched her skin once more.

Night came too quickly. Her travel was not long, it felt, or perhaps it just felt that way. Every path and turn she took looked no different from the other. But when she came to a stop for the night, small patches in the snow revealed the green grass and the cold seemed to have dissipated. Perhaps she did go farther than she had thought.

With a strained sigh Araraniel dropped her travel pouch to the ground at her feet and abstracted her weapons. A fire was made with what twigs and branches she was able to find, and she sat quietly in front of the burning fire. Avalon was tended to and settled for the night while his mistress lingered in wake, contemplating.

Araraniel was deeply astrayed in her own thoughts, absentmindedly twirling the dagger in her hand that she had out earlier, as she weighed on her troubled mind. The Ettenmoors was known for its inhabitants. Orcs, goblins, trolls, and wargs roamed freely, well-guarded with scouts hidden within the shadows. It was no secret. But Araraniel could not recollect ever seeing the ground that was so heavily covered in a blanket of sparkling white snow nearly ebony as ash. Those dark specks were not carcasses or burnt wood. No, they were orcs and goblins, and a great number of them.

"A number more from what I remember," Araraniel said to herself. She sighed and pushed the thought away from her mind. There was no use contemplating on it now. She hoped the roads were clear and safe for now but wondered if anywhere is safe anymore. Araraniel decided to repose for a little while to warm her frozen limbs before continuing on. And once she was ready to depart, she galloped into the night, her only company the unveiled illumination of the silver rays of the risen moon.

Araraniel traveled through the night without rest. Her mind heavy with discerning thoughts, Araraniel knew slumber would not come to her easily and she would not enjoy slumber too long. She dared not take the chance of being so close to the Ettenmoors. Twice she paused to allow Avalon some respite and some water, but her feet barely touched the ground. Before Araraniel could remember to look at the sky to take note of the hour, golden rays softly touched the earth and nearly blinded her vision. Araraniel again had to shield her face with her cloak but this time from the rising sun, and once the sun had gone above over the trees abaft her as the hour passed Araraniel had no need to shield her face any longer.

A little while later, Araraniel found a source of water. A river, having been spared of being frozen over yet by the cold, waited to quench the thirst of the traveler and her vigorous-willed steed. One glance at the waters made Araraniel dismount, something having caught her attention and intently so. But Avalon grew nervous and took a wide step away from the river, neighing and startling the woman from her gaze. "_Ai_! _No dhínen, _Avalon!" Araraniel said in a gentle tone to her horse, keeping a firm grip on the reigns and stroking his snout until he was placid.

Araraniel patted her loyal companion comfortingly. When she turned, her heart sank into her stomach.

A red river.

It was no tint of red but a deep thickness of it. One splash and it was gone but the river flowed with a dark redness, as if the water itself was red wine but Araraniel knew it was not so. It was blood. "There was a battle." Blood was shed. The ranger dipped her hand into the water and brought her hand to her nose, smelling as the red water seeped through the gap of her fingers. Her eyes darkened.

It was no goblin or Orc blood.

In the long, nearly three and a half months of travel, scouting, and Orc-hunting with little food, rest, and not the slightest bit of comfort, Araraniel was worn. The blood of battle and war had now seeped into the waters, swarming in red thickness like wine. The blood of her allies and of a painful death, her heart was certain. The dark gloom within the wild had stilled her heart and heaved heavy thoughts unto her mind, but a river flowing with blood made Araraniel's stomach turn inside out. Anger, sadness, and detestation swelled in her heart like a plague. It was time to return to Imladris.

She had seen enough.

"_Tolo enni_, Avalon!" Araraniel mounted her horse who had come to her at her request and speaking exigently, she chirruped, "_Noro_, _Avalon_! _Noro lim_!"

Avalon galloped like he was the very gust of the wind. The speed was so abrupt that Araraniel had to cling to his mane and gradually adjust herself, for she had not been prepared for such a bolt. She had to laugh at her own lack of competence.

The ride to Rivendell was another three days. Araraniel sanctioned herself some rest - after scouting roads more than she could count - and only then did she manage to fall into slumber for a couple of hours. Or so it felt; the sun said otherwise when she awoke. She rode as expeditiously as Avalon could bear her, only ceasing to give Avalon rest and to cave in to her stomachs desires, though she had little satisfaction with the food she carried with her, as much fulfilment stale bread and dried fruits could give. Nevertheless, Araraniel opted for it over than nothing, though nothing was just as good.

The next day, the weather was somewhat kinder to Araraniel. But her senses were not. A foul odor had been penetrating the air throughout the day, and it was quite familiar to Araraniel; it was a smell that Araraniel did not wish to cross paths with. Araraniel continued on with her journey but soon sensed Avalon was growing weary, unquestionably tired and droughted. Araraniel knew better than to push her horse further. Coerced to find resource of water, Araraniel gave in to her steed. He drank to his heart's content and was fed the last bit of fruit there was. Though the fruit was dried and Araraniel's endeavor to soften it did not prevail, Avalon ate it.

But Araraniel had been careless and was caught off guard by the sharp whoosh of an arrow cutting through the chilled air like a knife, and just scarcely missing Araraniel's head by an inch. Orcs came forth from their hiding and charged at Araraniel. She acted quick and jumped onto her saddle, urging Avalon firmly. But she did not get far before being knocked off her horse by an Orc that jumped from within the shadows, taking her to the ground. Avalon was then gone from her sight, frightened out of his wits but unharmed.

Araraniel grunted as she struggled against the Orc, her arm guards the only advantage she had to delay an attack. One glance to the side made her act quicker than lightning. She smashed her head against the Orc's and it dazed him long enough for Araraniel to retrieve her dagger and thrusted it into his shoulder, enough to injure him and for her to kick his body away.

Araraniel immediately moved to her feet and quickly she shot three arrows but only took down two Orcs. It was good enough. Araraniel brandished her sword and ran forward and slew her enemies. She parried and blocked one and thrusted her sword into another before withdrawing her weapon and letting the Orc fall, vanquished, and subjugated her anterior foe at that instant. She suddenly turned around and kicked vigorously at the Orc that endeavored an assailment on her, thrusting her sword into his neck.

"Ah!" Araraniel suddenly cried out and grabbed her shoulder, taking a hold of the arrow that had been pierced into her skin. With a great wince she pulled it out and tossed it, and gathered her strength, and shot an arrow at the Orc that had done the same to her. It missed and he drew another arrow, but before he had time to release it, Araraniel drew another one and pierced him in the forehead.

The battle was not long. Araraniel slew her last enemy, and this time none fled. Sheathing her sword, Araraniel looked over the carcasses of her subjugated foes. "Well," she breathed, "Now I know where they came from." The Ettenmoors, no doubt. She now knew their means - to broaden their borders.

Araraniel grabbed her shoulder at the sharp sting of pain. She was only a day and a half from Rivendell. She could briefly tend to her injury and continue on, and perhaps receive more preponderant healing from the Elves. Araraniel found the riverbank she was at momentarily ago and found her loyal companion there waiting for her. Araraniel patted her companion's side as she walked past him, murmuring something to him and tended to her wound as quickly as she could. She threw her cloak over her shoulder to further forfend it, and once prepared to leave, Araraniel mounted and quickly left the area.

Nightfall soon came, but Araraniel was not tired. Her mind was tired but her body was not. The sharp stinging sensation in her shoulder kept her aroused in wake as Avalon bore her without weary, but Araraniel did not mind it, though oddly the moiety crescent moon and the soft grey clouds skittering over the sky was a soothe to her. She tried to stay awake, but her mind was too fogged, and the pain throbbing in her shoulder only made it worse. She could not avail but give in to the tendrils of slumber, as she laid her head on Avalon's mane and allowed her eyes to flutter close.

Araraniel awoke to a feel of complete stillness. Her eyes gradually opened and was nearly blinded by the sunlight shining down on her face. She covered her face with her arm with a slight groan and sat up, turning away from the beam of light. It was evening, she noticed. As the blur faded from her mind she recollected the last thing her eyes had seen before falling into slumber - the effulgent shine of the moon. Had she been asleep throughout the whole day? Surely not! But she could not argue, as observed the sun gradually as it slid past the apexes of the mountains.

It was then she descried the mountains. Araraniel turned her head again and this time she did not cringe from the sun. Instead she smiled as her eyes gazed upon a familiar sight that brought more relief in her than she had ever felt.

"_Agoreg vae_," she praised her companion, patting on his side, _"_Well done."

After bringing Avalon to the stables and tending to him, Araraniel left him to his long awaited and well-deserved rest and sought out her own respite. She looked over her wound and did what she could do to tend it before covering it up. Until she could receive proper healing, it would have to do until after her council with Lord Elrond, and she hoped that would not be much longer. The first to descry her was Lindir, and he brought her to the Elf-Lord, who was dwelling in his library, occupied with a book. It was no surprise. Araraniel recollected spending her time with in the Elf-Lord within his library, reading and looking over scrolls as a component of her education. "Have you not read every book and scroll that is here, Lord Elrond, or are there more to read that even you did not know of?"

"There are a few that I have not yet read," Lord Elrond had said as he turned to her, "I recall a puerile woman telling me I have a far quantity of books that one can relish, and I daresay she was right." And then he smiled and welcomed her, and beckoned her, "You have returned from your adventure, and I see that it was not pleasant as the others by the look in your eyes and how your garb has been decorated by your travels. Come, let us walk."

"When I first set forth from Rivendell I immediately scouted the borderlines of the Trollshaws. I saw nothing but there was something in the air that made me uneasy. It did not feel right," Araraniel said when inquired of her journey, "But I did not see anything." She recounted her travels to him and did not omit anything, from the hunt of Orcs to riding north to the Ettenmoors and discovering the increased number of Orcs within the mountains and not a troll in sight, as far as she was able to see. "Twice I ran into a band of Orcs," she integrated, "Once when I was riding north and the second time when I riding to Imladris. They caught me off guard."

"It is unusual for you to be caught off guard by anything," Elrond responded, jest in his tone as he gave Araraniel a knowing look. She laughed and nodded her head.

"They did not survive long. They were not much of fighters either, but there was not a great number of them. They run in diminutive numbers. They are probing for something."

Elrond listened to her silently, nodding when she finished, and all the while he studied her appearance. There was a foreign glint in her eyes, but it was not a glint he desired to see. She was saddened. "You have seen something else," he noted out loud, "What is it you have not told me?"

"I have seen many dark things in my life," Araraniel said gravely, "Too many, in fact, and most you know of. But never before have I seen a red river, and the blood of our enemies it was not."

The Elf-Lord did not appear affected by the news. "A red river is only the beginning. It will not soon end either."

"For how long, I wonder," Araraniel sighed, "For how long will the Free People must endure, and endure what? Hope runs so thin now and courage stands so diminutive. How sorely does it shatter my heart to see it as so. Even I have not had peace for so long."

_And the valiance of men has long faded_, Araraniel thought to herself bitterly, a sting of dolefulness filling her heart.

"You were not named Glessil for simple reasons," Elrond said to her, "You brought bliss to your mother, and those who would hear upon your name would be filled with joy and have hope again. But that time is not yet here. I feel the worst is yet to come."

"No," Araraniel said, "it is not yet. You are right Lord Elrond, and I fear it." Her attention was then adverted. They had come to the courtyard, a quiet cull to the House of Elrond. It was often Araraniel's culled place to go to for tranquility. It was the chamber that kept the Shards of Narsil. Araraniel often found herself at the courtyard upon the terrace, a book in her hand or her mind drifted with troubled thoughts, the comeliness of the Elven land cleansing her troubled mind.

But it was not the location that washed her attention away from the Elf-Lord and her conversation with him, nor was it the innocence of the broken blade displayed on the shrine, bathed and shimmering in the warm light that shined. It was something more preponderant to her.

His words meant something to her. It reminded her of a token more special to her than her very own horse, and it was given to her by her mother. Upon the remembrance her head lowered and her eyes fell to onto an entity that bitterly reminded her that not all times were filled with jubilance, a reminder that never left her. Wrapped around her waist was a cloth, a red sash. It was old and faded of its color. Even as her fingers made contact with the fabric it burned her very flesh. Despite the softness it offered, there was no joy as Araraniel held it in her hands. The sash was once worn by a great man of accolade and very little pride; his one and only desire was to forfend the Free People. Of the great humble and decorum he had deep in his heart, into battle he went with an undying pledge to the Free People to liberate them of all harm's way, or die trying.

And lamentably, the latter was brought to him all too soon. Even in death did the sash follow him, but it did not follow him to his grave.

"It was kept for a reason." Araraniel turned to acknowledge the voice, and Lord Elrond bore a very light smile, but there was no light in his eyes. "Your mother wanted something to remember him by for she had naught of him but memory. She wanted a token."

"She lingered in sadness. Not even I could palliate her from it. My memory goes far," Araraniel said with softness. "Alas, sadly, it is not something I wish to remember. But I do."

"Her grief endured. But you eased the pain which withered her. You were her hope. Her joy."

_Her joy_, she thought to herself sadly. Araraniel only smiled, her eyes falling on the sash once more, realizing that she had tightened her grip. "If only I could have rescinded her grief completely. If it was possible I would have done so, and I know you would have as well. But not even an Elf's healing goes as far to ease such pain."

"Yes," Elrond expressed, dolefully, "That is for the heart to heal, not an herb or the doing of Elvish words. The pain your mother endured was the pain of the loss of her beloved, a man she loved just as equally as her father. You know of this pain that I speak of." But he then smiled and reposed a hand on her shoulder, and his eyes shined with warmth, the forlorn now gone. "Do not linger on that now. She found her peace, and you were a part of it. You know this."

"I only wish I had eased her fuller than I did," Araraniel smiled, though it was small.

"Now," Elrond smiled as they continued walking, "Am I to surmise you will be seen tonight?"

"Do not expect me acquired in the felicitous attire," Araraniel said and then laughed, "It would take me too long now. There would be minuscule time for me."

"You never are felicitously dressed," Elrond said with a marginal smile, a spark of jest in his eyes. Araraniel laughed again and nodded.

"Yes, I suppose you are right. I would not dare to – arrgh!" Araraniel winced, grabbing her shoulder as a bolt of pain shot through shoulder. Her skin throbbed and burned, as if it had been alit by flame. Immediately Elrond was at her side and sought her injury. "It is nothing. A minor injury is all it is."

"Minor it is not. It is ill inclined and inflamed. Come. Let us take care of it before it worsens."

Araraniel did not argue. She grasped her shoulder again at the pain that burned her skin and nodded. Within the hour the wound was cleaned, the pain ebbed away and her shoulder was felicitously bandaged. Araraniel had chided herself for not caring more while her wound was being cleaned, wincing a few times as it disaccorded with the treatment. As Araraniel covered her shoulder back over with her sleeve, she looked out the window and took note of the sky.

The sun was half lowered over the craggy cliffs, giving light to the final hours of the day as it reached its end. Dinner would soon be in the House of Elrond, and her stomach concurred. After a fortnight of living on stale bread and dried fruits, Araraniel could not gainsay that she was hungry. But her appearance was less than congenial. Dried blood stained her hands and her tunic and dirt touched her face. Her hair was of lesser appearance as well. The very sight made Araraniel cringe. The very least she could do was wash the dirt and filth and make her hair more presentable.

_The entitle to wear dresses left me a long time ago_, Araraniel thought to herself.

She managed to clean a bit. She cleansed her skin from the dirt, blood and filth and did what she could with her hair, at last a simple braid sufficing. _Not a lady of Imladris_, she thought to herself. But it had been long since she was one.

She was a Ranger.

When Araraniel came to the dinner hall it was quiet and still, and not many were there. In the House of Elrond all were welcome to come and unweigh their encumbrances and troubled minds, and heal. Some who came to Imladris did not stay long, while others remained, the placidity that weighed on them bringing serenity to them which they had not felt in so long. Guests came and went. The House of Lord Elrond of Imladris was never vacuous.

"What is this, a Ranger in her finest attire?"

Araraniel smiled. She turned. "Arwen."

Arwen Undómiel smiled with elation, her grey eyes sparkling like the shine of the moon. With a laugh the two women came to each other and embraced. Sisters they resembled but not quite so, but by the ecstasy and smiles they shared seeing each other, one could be easily fooled and would long forget the difference Araraniel was no immortal. "_Ae_, _Araraniel_!" Arwen greeted, "_Gi suilon_! It is wonderful to see you again."

"And you as well, my friend!" Araraniel said with gladness, her smile unwavering. "I have missed you and all things here in Imladris."

"Naught has changed; as you know, nothing changes here," Arwen answered with a smile, "There has not been anything of the particular, unlike the ranger who stands afore me, I am sure. You come across the very peculiar."

Araraniel laughed, "The wild holds many things, some of which are not congenial but fascinating as well," she said, "The open lands are the very same and no different from the wild. But things have changed, greatly so they have. The wild has been heavily shadowed and I felt no comfort there. I was in great haste to depart." Her smiling eyes had disappeared and her face faltered and touched Arwen's arm, riding of her thoughts for the time being. "But I am happy to be here now and could not think of anywhere better to be."

"You speak gravely," Arwen said after a short moment of silence, "You speak not only of the wilderness either. You mean to say grave of your travels."

Araraniel smiled but it was small, and Arwen knew her words were claimed true by Araraniel's grim features. "How can you possibly know that?" the Ranger asked.

"Your eyes," was Arwen's answer, "You are a open book, Araraniel. I have know you for so long to know this. You are not hard to read."

"Alas," Araraniel sighed, "Not even the presence of the forest brings me the content that it once gave me. Has the world truly darkened in all places? My path through the forests was only a diminutive part of my journey. But no more will I speak of this. I have returned and will undo all that weighs heavily on me, and find peace." But the dark, troubling feeling she had felt in the forest still weighed heavily on her.

Arwen took her by the arm and walked with her, and for a moment all dark thoughts had dispersed from Araraniel's mind when she saw the simple, tender smile of the elf at her side. "Have placidity and have rest, Araraniel Argonath. Comfort is rare at these times, tranquility even more so, and I hope you will find both here."

Araraniel was quiet throughout the evening. She sat among the elves and guests, and remained silent with not much mingling, with the exception of speaking to Arwen at her side and Elrond who sat across from her. Aside from that, she had naught to say. What was there to say? Her journey had been as unpleasant as some of her travels afore, though some were much more gruesome than the others, and there was no regaling tale to tell but of her revelations and the dark feeling she had felt traveling through a wild - a concerning thought that was even to Araraniel for she loved the wild as much as her own life, but darkness had spread farther since she last ventured into the wild - and what tales she did have of her battles were ephemeral and would bore easily. Fitting it was not, not this time.

In her silence Araraniel was a close observer. Easily she could detect if something was amiss, a old habit of hers borne in her days of an young Ranger. It applied to tonight as she sat quietly among the chatter. She did descry something. The sons of Lord Elrond were not present. Her eyes darted around, silently probing for the familar faces that belonged to Elladan and Elrohir, thinking perhaps she had looked too expeditiously without seeing them. But her eyes did not fail her tonight. Lord Elrond had seen this and obnubilated a smile. He knew what her silence betokened, and the frequent movement of her eyes confirmed his thoughts as so.

After nearly seventy years, the Elf-Lord knew her body language quite well; just as well as Aragorn had, if not better, and when she turned her head and caught his gaze she immediately knew and smiled a sheepish smile and laughed, leaning her body forward and regarded him in a quiet tone. "You know me so well. I think you know me better than myself."

He smiled, "You are not arduous to read."

"No, I am not." Araraniel sighed but she smiled and asked, "Where are your sons?"

"My sons are not here," he told her, "They set forth from Imladris eight days ago with the same purport as you. I had received word there was high activity of Orcs close to our borderlines. My sons went forth as reinforcements."

When Araraniel's stomach had its filling and the vivacity of the evening no longer delectated her, the strained and tiring weeks of her travels and her having finally caught to her, the woman quietly slipped away from the ebullient feast of soft melody music and chatter and the sipping of wine, and wandered for a while.

Araraniel had no idea where she was going. She simply walked, passing the gardens and the balcony more than once. She found herself at the courtyard after a while, and did not realize that she had come there until a silver beam gleamed in her eyes. The shards of the Narsil. The broken blade it was called; Aragorn had once designated it the lost sword, for its return to Gondor had not yet come to pass.

Araraniel approached the shrine and gazed upon the broken sword that laid there in its innocence. But innocent it was not, that much she knew. It had seen the greatest evil that has ever walked the earth. It had touched the very malignant and brought ruin to the maleficence. But the bearer of the blade brought pain unto the world, having been overcome by his own greed; and it was his greed that was his downfall. Would it be her downfall as well?

Such grim thoughts, she winced. This was not her. But alas, all that she'd seen in so little time was what the earth had endured and continued to endure, and it saddened her. She knew to not dwell in such dejected thoughts and she knew her weariness was of no assistance to her. But she could not help but think, as she stared blankly at the broken sword and running her finger lightly over one shard like a touch of a feather to skin, would she prosper over her progeny...

Or would she suffer his very own impotency and fate as well?

* * *

**Author's Note: I fully and shamefully admit that writing the battle scene was maybe too much fun for me. I think I enjoy blood and battles, and violence a little too much. Oh well. I hope you enjoyed the read, though! Was it good? Bad? I crave for your feedback and any thoughts, suggestions, or anything you have in mind. :)**

**Your Humble Authoress,**  
**Ms. Authoress**


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